Tramps and Thieves

by Rhys Ford

  The stories were lost to time, but the desire was still there, burning in Dante’s soul as hot and furious as the desire in his expression at Rook lying on the bed. Reaching up, he cupped Dante’s face, his palm roughed by the shadow of Dante’s beard.

  “You are… everything to me, Montoya,” Rook whispered, unable to gather more than a bit of air past the lump in his throat. He was speechless with want, aching for anything Dante would give him. “I’ve never ever wanted anyone like I want you. Not… I can’t not have you with me, and it fucking scares me, babe. You fucking scare me in so many ways, but each time, my heart tells me… reminds me… that I’m yours and—”

  He couldn’t think anymore, and Rook surrendered to Dante’s mouth, losing himself in Dante’s exploration. There were aches still, a bit of a twinge along his ribs, and when he hissed, Dante stopped, hair loose around his face and a questioning expression filled with concern and something tender on his face. Rook worked his fingers into the soft strands and pulled Dante down, capturing his mouth in a demanding, punishing kiss.

  “What do you feel up to, babe?” Dante licked at Rook’s jaw, then gnawed playfully at his earlobe. “Tell me. Anything you want.”

  “I want to have you around me,” Rook whispered, kneading his fingers into Dante’s shoulders. “Do you mind?”

  Sex in the past meant quick and hard, sometimes with barely a glimpse of a face before hands were peeling him apart, and a hasty grind to get himself pleasure. Dante made him want to take his time, taste and savor every inch of his lover and bring a gasp or a smile to Dante’s lips. Still, asking… talking about what he wanted… was still too new, too raw, and Rook stumbled over his desires, trying to remind himself he was worth being loved… having Dante’s love… while holding his breath for his lover’s no.

  “Go slow,” Dante warned, touching at the edges of Rook’s plaster. “Don’t… overstretch. Or better yet, lay back and let me do all the work.”

  Their laughter was as hot as the lube was cold, especially at Dante’s exaggerated hiss as Rook’s teasing fingers circled his entrance. They went slow at first; then something shifted, an urgency overtaking their desire. Perhaps it was the looming unknown waiting for Dante once he strapped on his badge and gun to face the world, or even the shadows closing in on Rook, trapping him inside of Archie’s elaborately decorated castle, a rambling sanctuary made into a prison by the insanity someone threw at them.

  The sun stole away, leaving behind only a brush of light, but Rook didn’t need it. Dante’s body was a treasure he’d drawn pleasure from time and time again. Working his fingers into Dante, Rook reveled in every soft cry and kiss Dante left on his shoulders and throat. Easing the way for his cock to fill the sweet velvet of Dante’s body, Rook spread the slick oil around, then coated as much of himself as he could reach while Dante moved to straddle him.

  Dante held himself up, angling his back and resting on his shins, moving carefully around Rook’s hips until he could reach back and grasp Rook’s shaft. He played with Rook, teasing at the ridge of his cockhead until Rook mewled and ground out a nonsensical threat. Placing his hands on either side of Rook’s face, Dante tipped the end of his tongue against Rook’s nose, making him squirm.

  “I kind of like you like this,” Dante teased. “Try not to wiggle too much. Don’t want you to bust your stitches.”

  Gripping the base of Rook’s cock, Dante eased over him, enveloping Rook in a soft, tight heat. It seemed to take forever, and Rook fought the urge to push his lover down, but he kept his hands tight on Dante’s hips, letting the other man have control. It was an intimacy he wouldn’t have allowed with any other man. No one ever came close to Rook’s heart, and he’d more than a few times marveled at how Dante could flay him open with a simple touch or loving word, then shelter him from the storm of his own doubts.

  Nestled down on Rook’s hips, Dante began to move, slowly working his body forward and rocking along Rook’s length. They began their dance, moving together in an off-beat rhythm slowed by frequent kisses and teasing words. Their words became panting breaths, gasps run taut as the pleasure built up between their bodies. Rook’s stomach clenched, his balls curling up and rolling under Dante’s ass, and he tamped down on his orgasm, stroking at Dante’s cock as it wept with the beginning of his release.

  The anticipation crested, tearing apart Rook’s control. A drop of Dante’s sweat hit his chest, the splash wetting his nipple, but it was gone in a second, absorbed by the damp sheen on his skin. Unable to stop himself, Rook thrust up, meeting Dante’s hip rolls, pushing as much of himself into Dante as he could. He’d have loved to watch Dante’s body unwrap with their movements, clasping him in the rough tumble of their lovemaking, but the ride was beginning to take its toll. His side burned, a small flicker of pain quickly swallowed by the delight of Dante’s ass clenching around his dick.

  A squeak of the bed frame tapped at Rook’s common sense, and he slowed his rocking down, stopping the headboard from slamming into the wall. Dante bent forward, pushing down on his knees, and anchored his hand on the tufted leather behind the pillows at Rook’s head.

  “Hold on, cuervo.” Hoarse with lust, Dante groaned, his cock heaving in Rook’s clasped hand. “Dios.”

  Rook lost the rest of it, drowned in the spill of his body’s pent-up need. His cock jerked and teased, his hands clamped down over Dante’s hips, filling his lover with every drop of his release. It was nearly too much to bear, too tender of an explosion, and Rook shook with the force of Dante’s come splashing over his belly and chest, a musky wave of sex and potent emotions.

  The world grew gray, softening at the edges as Dante slipped off of him. As much as Rook mourned the lost of his boyfriend’s body on his, the tightness on his torso eased from the lack of weight on his hips, and when he sucked in a breath, his ribs trembled from the effort. Patting at his side, it took a bit for him to find the bandage he’d put on that morning, a twisted nest of gauze and tape stuck to his thigh instead of covering the throbbing stitches in his skin.

  “Ouch.” Peeling the taped-up tangle hurt nearly as much as the gash, but it soon faded, leaving only the abused stitches with their dull ache in its wake. Rook was sticky and pretty sure his hips were coated with lube, a surefire way to end up stuck to the sheets if he didn’t get cleaned up. “Hey, babe, help me—”

  Dante stood at the side of the bed, his phone in his hand and an expression Rook recognized as Dante’s cop face plastered firm and tight where his lover’s laughter once held court. Crawling to the edge of the mattress, the fire started anew across his ribs, Rook reached for Dante, tugging at his wrist. He was immoveable, a hard granite-and-amber monolith standing off in the ruined shadows from the insistent morning light.

  “What happened? What’s wrong?” There were too many people… too many missing pieces of the fucked-up puzzle of the case for it not to be someone Rook knew, perhaps even loved. His brain scrambled, finding horrors he hadn’t even begun to fold his thoughts around—scared shitless that maybe the killer found Manny or perhaps even Archie, peeling them from Rook’s life with the same careless brutality he’d used on Vicks and the others. “Dante, talk to me. What the fuck’s going on?”

  “I’ve got to go in, cuervo.” Dante exhaled, dropping the phone onto the bed. Running his thumb over Rook’s mouth, he pressed into Rook’s chin, then said, “They found Sadonna in the water off of the Santa Monica Pier. I don’t know how she is or even if she is alive, but… they’ve found her.” Dante’s kiss was salty, stained with an edged anger mingled with a terror Rook knew all too well. “So if you love me, Rook, you will do this one thing—this one small thing that I’m asking of you—stay here. Because without you, I have nothing else to live for.”

  Seventeen

  SALT STUNG Dante’s nose, the sea’s briny mists clutching at his lungs as he walked the length of the pier, tiny droplets dappling his black peacoat. Hank stood at the end of a row of squat buildings, and Dante hurried, listening to Ca
mden’s thinner trench beat at his partner’s legs, the slap-slap of fabric on Hank’s shins sounding off an odd applause for Dante’s arrival on the scene.

  The landmark’s massive Ferris wheel creaked ominously, its metal baskets swaying in the brisk, cutting breeze, and while someone’d turned off its flashing lights, its music jauntily played softly on, a muted jolly mocking of the pier’s recent tragedy. A flight of seagulls hovered a few feet off the walk’s edge, their wings pumping lazily as they rode the hard, icy wind currents, maddeningly out of reach of the torn-eared ginger tom squatting near the ride’s compressor. There were uniforms swarming the pier, a flock of blue wraiths moving through rides and shops in a focused search for evidence.

  Sparrows pecked at bits of food stuck in between the double pier’s planks, scattering, then regrouping when Dante crossed over the boardwalk. Dante’s partner moved closer, waiting near a roundabout kiddie ride of wild-eyed painted resin horses, swatting at a gull diving down to snatch at the scrap of muffin Hank had in his hand. The bird won, sweeping off with the pastry, leaving Hank swearing in its wake.

  “Should I have brought a loaf of bread with me?” Dante teased. “So you can feed the birds?”

  “Screw you, Montoya. And it’s ’bout time you got here. Morgue sent a newbie. Think his name is Taylor. Um…. Chase Taylor,” Hank grunted, jerking his chin in the direction of a slender young man with hair nearly as vibrant as Camden’s. The tech must have heard them, because he looked up from his tablet and waved at Hank, his mouth turning up into a wide, enthusiastic smile. “He’s like an American cheese sandwich with mayo on white bread and a bowl of Jell-O. God, were we ever that young?”

  “Never,” Dante asserted. “I also don’t think I’ve ever had a cheese sandwich in my entire life. Grilled, yes, but plain?”

  “Think really crappy tasteless quesadilla that sticks to the roof of your mouth and you have to use your tongue to get it off.” His partner chuckled. “I used to eat tons of them after school before dinner. Man, they’re like the shittiest thing to eat, but it’s childhood, right? Like mixing uncooked ramen noodles with coleslaw. Good stuff.”

  “There was something seriously wrong with your childhood, Camden.” His throat was closing up at the thought of cabbage, ramen, and mayonnaise. “Dios, even Rook eats better than that, and he was raised in a circus.”

  “Scratch at that sometime and ask him,” Hank retorted. “Bet you find something fucked-up, like he ate Cheetos and milk like cereal for breakfast. Let’s find Cranston in this mess. She’s probably got something for us to do.”

  “Any news from the hospital?” Dante stepped over a garden hose, its jet attachment spurting a thin spray from its threaded end. “Last I heard, they revived her in the ambulance, but it was touch and go all the way in. Surprised Cranston wanted to meet here instead of there.”

  “They were still working on her. That’s all I know, but the sweep down here came up with something. That’s why Cranston wanted us down here.” Tugging at Dante’s sleeve, Hank leaned in. “Text said to go straight down the right side of the pier, then hook in at the Ferris wheel to get to the back. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two-hundred dollars. And do not pet the cat.”

  “That cat looks like it can fuck me up, so no, I’m not going near it,” he replied. They gave the feline a wide berth, and the tom flattened himself when a gull landed on one of the rain-damp baskets. “Cranston’s over there. This place is insane. Between the Ferris wheel, the roller coaster, and those rinky-dink rides back there, how the hell does anyone walk around this place?”

  “Doesn’t help half of Santa Monica’s beat cops are here.” Hank glanced around. “Why the hell are they all here? And actually, why is the tech here? They pulled Sadonna out of the water.”

  The petite blond detective waved them over, motioning for the partners to circle around an ice cream kiosk. Like Camden, she wore a beige trench, but hers seemed to be lacking the inevitable jelly stain most of Camden’s jackets bore on their hems. They ducked and cut under a small roller coaster’s tracks, Camden grumbling about nearly striking his head on the bright yellow curve. She shook their hands firmly, but there was fatigue dragging at her face, tightening the corners of her mouth.

  “When was the last time you got some sleep, Cranston?” Camden barked, frowning at her. “You look like you could use a three-year nap.”

  “Don’t mind Hank. He doesn’t like the ocean. Makes him skittish,” Dante commented softly. “Something about crossing running water.”

  Hank snorted loudly. “There’s things in the ocean that will literally eat all of you and leave like… your eyeballs behind. Bobbing around, washing up on the sand to scare the shit out of some kids playing Frisbee.”

  “Don’t be silly, Camden,” the detective retorted. “Eyeballs are soft meat. Gelatinous even. They’d be the first to go.”

  “Unless they’re cooked,” Dante pointed out. “Then they turn into white marbles, but those would sink.”

  “Oh, you two need some therapy,” his partner shot back when Dante smirked at him. “So, what’s with all the uniforms? Way too many for a drowning. And if it was an attempted suicide—”

  “It’s not a suicide. Someone stabbed her, in the shoulder. The blade caught on her ribs, and her attacker tried to pull it out. We got it on tape,” Cranston corrected. “Come on over here. Behind the booth. I need to show you what the divers are looking for in the water.”

  “Why’d you need divers?” Hank peered over the blue railing. “Water that deep? Shit, it’s like pea soup down there.”

  “Better question. How did she get in the water? That top rail is pretty high.” Dante moved in behind his partner, comparing the bar’s height with his memory of Sadonna’s measurements. There were three divers he could see, layered with black wetsuits and listening to a fourth off to the side. His words were caught up by the wind, making it impossible to hear everything, but it sounded like they were heading back down to work another section under the pier. “How’d she go over? This is elbow height. How good is the tape? Do we have a clear face shot of her attacker?”

  “We’ve got one good camera angle off of the coaster, and well, there was a struggle, not a long one, but it seemed heated. I’ve watched it, but I want your impressions.” She pointed to a white ball hanging under a jut in the ride’s structure. “It’s cued up over in the office. That door right there.”

  The musty office was cramped, barely enough space for two institutional desks set back to back in the middle of the square room, and its plain wood paneling outer walls each sported a narrow sash window with metal screens fixed over the glass. Stacks of stapled papers covered half of one desk, while the desk closer to the door held an old, scuffed laptop and a small boxy television connected to a hard drive.

  “Let me guess, you have to be two-dimensional to be hired here?” Hank glared down at the tight space between the desk and one of the rolling chairs, then shook his head. “Before we get started, who found her?

  “A couple walking their dog on the beach. Spotted her arm caught up on one of the pier supports. Guy went into the cold water to pull her out and performed CPR until the EMTs got here. Reports said she was blue and unresponsive, but once she warmed up, they found a pulse.” Cranston fiddled with the TV. “Let me get this started.”

  “Surprised they didn’t call it.” Camden sat on the edge of the desk.

  “Could be they thought she was still alive if she’d kept bleeding out of the wound,” Dante offered. “Fifty-fifty if it was pink because she was in the water, but once they got her stripped and it ran red and hot, they’d work harder. Even if the blood’s sluggish.”

  “It was very sluggish, but yeah, she wasn’t going to go on those guys’ watch. Here we are.” She angled the small screen so they all could see the grainy, gray-flecked recording. “Equipment’s not great, and there’s no sound. The security guys are pulling the other cameras, hoping we can get a better face, but so far, this is the only one with any
action.”

  The recorded feed was choppy, a staccato replay of two shapes played out on a pixel canvas, reminding Dante of a yellowed zoetrope Rook showed him during a scrub of the shop’s back room. A familiar-shaped woman with blonde hair trotted out onto the pier, her thick-heeled boots creating ripples in the wide puddles around the roller coaster’s perimeter. Her hands were shoved into a heavy jacket, but she’d left her head bare and pushed her hair from her face when the wind whipped it about. She paced, looking over her shoulder and peering off into the diminishing shadows around the cluster of booths and sales fronts arranged around the larger rides.

  When she turned her head to look back at the street, it was clear the woman was Sadonna Swann, but it was a shock to see the dark bruise across her cheek and swollen eye, its savagery vivid even in the muted palette of the coaster’s security camera.

  “She just walked out there. No one stopped her, but this place is twenty-four seven, right? All access, all the time? Where was the security guard?” Hank asked. “Is there one?”

  “Guard makes a long round,” she answered. “Sometimes it’s up to an hour before he makes the next sweep. Or that’s what he said. I’m guessing it’s even more.”

  “This early, though, only die-hard surfers if the waves are good and a couple of crazy health nuts, but someone might have seen something. We just need to find them.” Hank tapped at the time stamp on the screen. “Sun’s not quite up but enough ambient light to see. Out in the open, so she doesn’t trust this guy. Caught a full ID of her face there, but where’s our attacker?”